When I had made up my mind that there was absolutely no way I would stay in New Brunswick for my post-secondary education, I likely should have thought about all of the things I would be leaving behind. It wasn’t just my family and friends that I left 1300 kilometres away – I left my heart at home in my gun locker. Now that I’m heading into my second month here in University, I realize that I left my passion in a different province. I left a piece of my soul at home.
I moved from a small area with an approximate population of 1300 people to move to a city with a population of over a half-million. The move didn’t faze me in the least, but as hunting season drew progressively closer, I realized that when I left home to head out to further my education, I had forgotten an important aspect. Obviously I love to hunt deer and grouse, and as a non-citizen of Ontario, it would cost me an arm and a leg for a license, on top of which you can add a fee for a guide. Oh, and don’t forget that I don’t have any firearms, nor any place to store any game here on campus. I almost cry at the thought.
I keep in touch with my mother back home in New Brunswick, and she keeps me informed about the deer activity around the house and the areas I used to hunt. Apparently a nice wide four-point buck has taken up residence where my eight-point monster fell last year, and just across the river on private property, two mature bucks have been feeding. Of course she hunts as well, and my first comment was for her to send me pictures of one of these bucks hanging in our garage. I’d definitely go for some venison over turkey when I return home for Christmas.
For the first time in nearly five years the grouse are plentiful as well. According to some family members, they’ve seen flocks gathered on the road after the rain. Birds of all sizes gathered to catch the sun at its warmest. Oh how I’d love to be there with my shotgun. Of course small game season has started in New Brunswick now, and as far as I know, my .410 which was cleaned before I left still sits locked up. Deer season is only three weeks away, and my grandfather who happens to live in the city I currently reside in is going down East to try and bag himself a deer. If only people here understood the call of the wild.
My friends here on campus know me well enough now to know that I’d love to be out hunting, or even just firing off some shots at a rifle range, but what they can’t seem to wrap their heads around is the fact that something that view as abnormal for the area can cause me so much distress. I’d give anything to make the trip with my grampie, to take out my .308 and sit patiently for hours on end, but unfortunately the only thing I’ll be sitting patiently for is the end of my Latin lecture.
The echoing sound of a gunshot, the thrill of the hunt, the smile on the hunters face – I feel guilty every time I think of what I left behind. I long to go back for one more hunt, but for four years my deer season will be spent learning history and languages, not blood trailing or shot placement. I’m putting these thoughts out there because I know amongst you ladies I am understood and you all lend a sympathetic ear to my plight. Think of me when you draw your bow back or set the crosshairs of your scope nicely behind the shoulder of that buck of a lifetime or big bodied doe, and let one rip for me. It’ll be appreciated.
